


Broken Hallelujah (12x23 Coda)

by WickedNerdAngel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angry Dean Winchester, Angst, Devastated Dean, Hopeful Sam, M/M, Nephilim, Pain, aftermath of Major Character Death, so much pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 08:36:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14766219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickedNerdAngel/pseuds/WickedNerdAngel
Summary: He lets his body collapse onto his calves, boots digging into his cold, jeans-clad flesh, exacerbating the ache, but he doesn't care. His tired, glassy green eyes glide over black dress shoes, navy slacks, a wrinkled white dress shirt, sloppy blue and white striped tie and the hint of the matching navy jacket before he even lets himself look at the coat.





	Broken Hallelujah (12x23 Coda)

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't... finish this. I wrote it last summer after the season 12 finale, and welp, life happened. I had big plans for this, but then season 13 started and as much as I'd love to add to it, I'm a bit tainted from season 13. I may still at a later day. 
> 
> Anyway, this one hurts. So much. Warning for an agonizing, angry, devastated Dean in this one, y'all. And I'm sorry. :'-(((
> 
> Comments and kudos always welcome. <3<3

Broken Hallelujah

Episode 13X23 Coda

By WickedNerdAngel

 

The ground is cold, hard, unrelenting. His knees and legs ache from kneeling on it, but that ache is nothing. Its nothing. The damp air burns his lungs with each punctuating, visible breath he heaves, and there's a putrid, burning smell in his nostrils that will not dissipate. He knows what that smell is,  _ why _ that smell is, and he can't… 

He dares his eyes to shift to them. To look at the scorched, broken wings singed into the ground, but they won't budge.  _ They're as stubborn as the rest of me,  _ he muses with a humorless huff. He barely registers his own muscles, working in his neck to shake his head in its own silent protest at his dare.

No, his eyes are locked on the heavens above, wondering, waiting, but nothing comes. No _ one _ comes. This can't be it.  _ This can't be it _ , he's crying in his head, but no tears have fallen. He finally lets his gaze fall, but not to him, not yet. To look at him again would make it final.  _ It's not final.  _ The words are on the tip of his tongue.  _ Please. _

He lets his body collapse onto his calves, boots digging into his cold, jeans-clad flesh, exacerbating the ache, but he doesn't care. His tired, glassy green eyes glide over black dress shoes, navy slacks, a wrinkled white dress shirt, sloppy blue and white striped tie and the hint of the matching navy jacket before he even lets himself look at the coat. He cringes as he takes it in, his memory floods with images of himself and Bobby shooting bullet holes into it, of pulling it out of a lagoon, of putting it in his trunk, for however long, he didn't care. His mind flashes with memories of all the times he's touched that material, patted it in happiness, in hugs; grabbed onto it in fear and worry… and in anger.

He shifts his gaze to the hands inside the sleeves of that coat. Hands that have touched him, broken him, healed him; hands that have killed  _ for  _ him. ‘ _ I'm hunted. I rebelled, and I did it… all of it, for you. And you failed.’  _ He feels himself reach over and touch one of those hands. Still warm. Still life-like. “I failed again,” he whispers. Boldly, he takes that hand in his, entwines his fingers with… “C-Cas,” he whispers on a shaky breath… just to see what it feels like, what it  _ would've  _ felt like.

He can't look at his face yet. Not yet. He lets his eyes glide over the crumpled coat, past his shoulder to the dirt below it. The black marks he sees make his heart stutter in his chest.  _ No. No, those aren’t his wings.  _ His mind flashes with images of lightning, of the sound of thunder and a gruff voice.

_ ‘Who are you?’ _

_ ‘Castiel’ _

_ ‘I figured that much, I mean what are you?’ _

_ ‘I’m an angel of the Lord.’ _

In his mind's eye, he sees enormous, looming shadows. Ethereal wings outstretched behind the  _ thing,  _ he'd thought at the time. He chokes on a sob that he won't let out. He can't let it out.

It's been a long time since he's seen those wings. He longs to see them now. Huge and protective and safe. “I'm helpless,” he whispers, “I nee--” he swallows, “Cas… I need you.” But there's no answer. Why would there be? Since when does Dean Winchester ever get what he wants?

_ They always leave… eventually.    _

He tears his eyes away from the sad remains of those burnt, broken wings and starts at the top of the angel's head.  _ My angel,  _ he thinks to himself. But not anymore. The sob, still kept at bay, chokes him. Brown tendrils, a slight curl to the tips, still neatly coiffed, dirty at the back where his head meets the ground, frame the face he still can't look at.

“Where are you?” he whispers again, unsure of whom he's speaking to… Cas? God? Even Amara?  _ Someone, please!  _ He can come back. He's come back before. He can come back. He repeats this mantra in his head for who knows how long until finally… finally, he lets himself look at his face. Only for a second though, because it's too much. It's too much.  _ Goddamn it, it's too fucking much! _

_ ‘You should show me some respect.’  _ Brutal, stoic, confident. Castiel. ‘ _ I dragged you out of Hell, I can throw you back in.’ _

He looks back again, at the angel's face because he's a masochist of unprecedented levels.  _ Cas. Cas. Castiel!  _ He screams in his head. He stares at closed eyelids and wills them to open, to blink, to flutter, something, anything. He wills it until he has no will left. Just one sign of life, but there's nothing.

_ They're so blue,  _ he remembers thinking.  _ Inhuman. Beautiful. _

He heaves in a labored, burning breath and holds it, just for a second. He doesn't even feel like himself. He's numb, doesn't feel his own body anymore. When he blows the breath out slowly, feeling rushes back to him, and it hurts. It all hurts. He doesn't want it. He doesn't want any of it.

_ ‘I wish I couldn't feel anything, Sammy. I wish I couldn't feel a damn thing.’  _ Yeah, he's back there again.

He lets himself squeeze Cas’ hand, and moves his aching bones to lie down next to him, pressing himself in as close as he can get to the angel's body. Just to feel him. Just to know he's still there. But he's not there. Not really.  _ This is better,  _ he thinks, staring at the stars again. He wonders which one Cas is residing on now. The sob chokes him again and this time, the tears are just too powerful. They well in his eyes, like flooding during a storm, barely balancing at the top of a dam, until he blinks them away. His cheeks are wet now, swirling with the dirt on his face. It's just as well. He feels dirty, worn out, worthless.

_ 'I do everything you ask. I always come when you call. And I am your friend. Still, despite your lack of faith in me and now your threats.’ _

“Cas,” he whispers, his voice is broken, hoarse. His throat aches. He clears it, attempting in some way to sound human. But then again, he doesn't  _ want _ to feel human anymore. He wants that numb feeling back. Nothingness. It's just easier.

_ ‘Cas… Listen, buddy, you can't stay.’ _

He cringes with every memory that overtakes him. But Dean finds a minute amount of resolve as he lies next to Cas, he finds his voice and feels a sudden compulsion to talk to the angel. He doesn't know  _ why _ he's talking, he just feels this burning ember deep inside, like he  _ has _ to, and so he does. His voice sounds distant; he doesn't even recognize it, weak, despondent.

_ ‘Talk to me,’  _ he remembers begging the angel. And Cas did. He gifted Dean with his biggest fears, he confided in Dean, told him things he isn't sure  _ he'd  _ ever be able to. He racks his brain, trying to remember if he ever told the angel what he deserved to hear. He knows the answer to that. Instead, it was:

_ ‘Cas, buddy, I need you.’ _

_ ‘I did everything I could to get you out! I did not leave you.’ _

_ ‘I know you're in there; I know you can hear me. Cas, it's me. We're family. We need you. I need you.’ _

_ I need you. _

_ I need you. _

“Cas?” he says his name again, rolling it around on his tongue. It feels foreign, it's painful, but he continues, “you remember when we first met? I was so afraid of you.” He chuckles humorlessly at that. “But I would never admit that, not then. I can admit it now. I was scared to death of you…  so fucking scared. But I was also intrigued,” he continues. “There was something about you, man. Something I couldn't put my finger on, but it was there. I felt safe, even though you know I wouldn't admit that either. After you told me who you were, I remembered you. Sort of. I mean, I guess it wasn't really  _ you, _ you. I remember you saving me from hell even though I pretended I didn't. I remember that place… almost every bit of it. I remember the fire, the heat, the screams, the moans and the wails. And then I remembered something else,” He squeezes the lifeless hand in his. “It was a bright light.  _ So fucking bright.  _ Blinding. That's really all I remember. A bright light that was pulling me away from all of that… all of that wreckage.” 

Dean takes a shaky breath, unsteady, wondering why he's doing this; wondering if he should continue talking. He does it anyway. For some reason, he can't stop talking to his Angel now that he's started. He feels something pushing him to confess. Confess everything.  _ Everything _ .

“Remember when you tried to talk to me before we met? I had to change my pants a couple of times after that, I'll admit.” He laughs, this time just a hint of humor. “Can you hear me, Cas? Can you hear me? Is it like that? Maybe you can hear me but you can't understand me? I don't know what happens to Angels when they--” he pauses. He doesn't want his mind to go there, but it goes there just the same. “I remember everything you did for me, Cas.” His voice sounds broken now, every syllable crackling as it comes out of his mouth. “It's all cataloged right up here,” he lifts what feels like a waterlogged arm and Taps his temple with his forefinger once, then twice, before letting it drop back to the ground. “In the inventory of Dean Winchester’s archived feelings and fucking emotions.”

He sucks in another shaky breath, blowing it out with force before he continues to talk to his angel. “I need to tell you I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Cas. I'm so damn sorry. I don't know how many times I can say it to you before I feel better about it, I could say it forever, I guess?” His voice quivers, that sob choking him again,  he can barely get the words out. “All those times I turned you away, I'm sorry. All those times I yelled at you for doing the right thing, I'm sorry. I know it doesn't mean much now, but all I ever wanted was for you to be safe. I wanted you with me always, I just, I didn't have a choice. Not at the time. But I wish I would have told Gadreel to go fuck himself. I wish I would have listened to you about The Mark. I wish I would have stood by your side when you were fighting Raphael by yourself, and you had to turn to a demon, a  _ demon _ , because I wasn't there for you. All the things I wish I would have done differently, man, I wish I could change all of it. I'm a smart enough son-of-a-bitch to know that I can't, but I want you to know that I wish I could. And I wish you could hear me. I wish you could hear me tell you that I need you. I've always needed you, Cas.  _ Always _ man, even when I didn't think I did.”

_ ‘I know. You're hoping Castiel will come back to you… if only he felt the same way.’ _

He's crying now. He doesn't know when the tears started flowing freely, but they broke the fucking levy and their dripping down his temples. He wills himself to stop.  _ Suck it up, Winchester,  _ he thinks to himself, squeezing his eyes shut again and blowing out breath after breath to calm himself.  _ Suck it the fuck up.  _ But he can't. Not this time. He turns to his side, his body like lead, and reaches a hand across the too-still chest of his angel. He wishes - with every goddamn molecule of his being, with  _ every  _ goddamn ounce of his damaged soul - that the chest he's touching was rising and falling like his own. It remains unmoving.

_ ‘He's gone, Dean.’ _

_ ‘Damn it. Cas, you child.’ _

_ ‘Sammy, he's gone.’ _

_ ‘Never do that again!’ _

“C-Cas,” he chokes, moving his now trembling hand up to the angels face, cupping his jaw, calloused fingers caressing his cheekbone.  _ “Cas!”  _ he cries, no longer masking his despair and devastation. He grips the angel tighter now, buries his nose between Cas’ ear, behind his jaw. “What am I supposed to do, man? I dunno… I-I dunno how to do this,  _ any  _ of this without you anymore.” He rakes his free hand through Cas’ hair, soft, pliable, and takes another shuddering breath. He turns his head again, facing the sky.  _ “What am I supposed to do?!”  _ he screams to the heavens.

_ Somebody!  _ He continues screaming in his head, his body wracked with sobs unrelenting.  _ Chuck! God! You son of a bitch!  _ He's praying, the only way he knows how.  _ He's done nothing but serve you! Worship you! And now he's dead because of me! Do something, goddamn it! _

He turns his head back to Cas, pressing his forehead into the angel's cheek this time, briefly, then boldly presses his lips to the bolt of his jaw because  _ fuck it. Fuck everything.  _ “My angel,” he whispers, his voice completely wrecked. “My angel,” he cries, kissing his temple. “My angel,” he sobs, kissing his closed eyelids, his forehead, his nose, and finally, “I'm so fucking sorry. I'm so--” his breath catches in his throat, he can't breathe anymore. “Cas, I'm so sorry I,  _ fuck _ , I lo-- I love you so fucking much, please,  _ please.  _ I can't do this,  _ I can't do this,”  _ he doesn't even realize he's sprawled across the angel's chest now.

_ ‘You're my family. I love you… I love all of  _ _ you.’ _

“Dean?” The voice is distant. He barely even registers it.  _ “Dean!” _

“I wish… I wish I could've saved you, Cas,” that's all he can get out before Sam is at his side. But Dean doesn't see him. His eyes are screwed shut, face buried in the crook of his angel's neck, and there's a roaring in his ears that won't let up.

Sam approaches him, hands held up, unsure what to do. He's never seen his big brother like this. The devastation is palpable. He feels it. His eyes well up, but he sniffs and blinks them away. He loved Cas too. He's gonna miss him more than he'd like to admit too, but what Cas and Dean had, he knows was special. He's known that for years, he was always just waiting for some sort of revelation between the two of them. A revelation that never came.

Sam takes a tentative step toward his brother, his eyes shift cautiously to the house behind him before returning to Dean's supine form. “Dean?” he says again, repeating his brothers name until there's some semblance of recognition.

Dean's lost. He's somewhere that isn't painful. Somewhere with Cas, watching Netflix, eating popcorn… he's teaching Cas about ‘Netflix and chill.’ He's anywhere that's not here, tucked against the body of his best friend, his _more_ _than_ best friend. In the distance, he hears his own name again. It's not the right voice, not deep enough, not gruff, and it sounds so far away. It sounds like he's being called from the end of a long, dark tunnel; he's at the bottom of a mine and the voice is somewhere on the surface.

He tries to listen this time, strains his ears until he recognizes it. “Sam,” he whispers.

“Open your eyes,” he hears, and he blinks them. They feel dirty, gritty, heavy, as if his eyelids weigh a literal ton. When he finally opens them fully, his vision is blurry. He's still on the ground next to his angel and he doesn't want to get up. Doesn't want to leave him, though he knows he has to. Before he realizes it, Sam’s hand is on his shoulder, tentative, but strong and warm. He blinks a few more times, the sight of his brother's large, looming form finally coming into view, before he brushes Sam’s hand off him and sits up. His back is fucking killing him. The ground around him, though steadying, feels like quicksand. He feels it grabbing his hands, coiling around his wrists like serpents, pulling, sinking him. His body sags.

“Dean…” his brother commences.

“I'm fine,” is Dean’s deadpan response.

“D-Dean, I'm so so--”

“I  _ said  _ I'm fine, Sam!” He scrubs his face with his hands, digs his palms into the sockets of his eyes and heaves yet another shaky breath. “Fuck.” It's just a whisper, but it conveys everything necessary to his younger brother in that moment.

He knows he's being an asshole. Knows, but can't bring himself to care. His eyes scan his surroundings. It's dark, darker than he remembers it being, save for the porch light above the door of the cabin showcased behind Sam. He squints at the light, eyes scanning the exterior of the structure. There are no lights on except for one… faint. And then he remembers. He looks at his younger brother's face finally, his eyes going wide for a moment as he takes in Sam's expression, somewhere between shell-shocked, sadness and exhaustion. Dean recovers quickly and  clears his throat.

“Where is it?” he asks gruffly.

Sam sighs, eyes shift tentatively at the house again before returning to Dean. “It's… he’s inside.”

Dean glares. Anger and full fledged hatred suddenly fills his being. He wants, he  _ needs  _ to kill something. “Oh  _ he?  _ Now it's a  _ he,  _ Sam?” His voice is dangerous, challenging.

“Dean.” It's a warning. Dean knows it, and he doesn't give a fuck. Maybe he's already reached the anger portion of grief, who knows, but he does not care. It's an  _ it.  _ A  _ thing.  _ It's the spawn of the goddamn devil. It's fucking  _ father  _ killed his angel. It's a monster, and He. Wants. To. Kill. It.

Sam reaches out his hand, and Dean reluctantly takes it. He's pulled into a standing position in the blink of an eye and he stumbles. A warm hand on his shoulder steadies him, but he doesn't want the warmth, he doesn't want the sympathy. So, once he has his bearings, he pushes that hand away forcefully. His brother holds up both hands again, as if in the presence of a rabid animal, and takes a step back before letting his arms fall at his sides.

“There won't be any discussion about this, Sam. There won't be any  _ talking  _ this through. That  _ thing,” _ he tries hard not to let his voice quiver, “is a part of what killed…” he sweeps his hand over Cas’ body and watches as Sam's eyes shift sadly, and he can't say his name again, he  _ can't,  _ “and it has to die.”

“Dean,” Sam sighs, raises his arms, pleading, “I know you're upset, but--”

“No discussion, Sam!” Dean yells, his voice louder and more hateful than even he thought possible. As if on cue, the door to the cabin behind Sam swings open. Dean has his glock pulled and pointed before Sam even has a second to process. His head snaps around and back to his big brother just as fast before he jumps in front of him, arms still raised in a futile attempt to keep his brother from murdering the only chance they have of getting at the very least, their mom back.

“No, Dean! Stop!” he begs.

“What is  _ that?”  _ Dean snarls.

“It's him, Dean, it's Jack, now put the gun down!”

“Fuck off, Sam. That's not a damn baby!  Move!”

Sam doesn't budge. Instead, he inches closer to Dean. “I can't explain why he's not a baby, but I'm not moving, Dean. I'm not.” He shakes his head slowly, swallows the thick lump in his throat. He knows his brother won't hurt him. Not really. “I need you to listen to me right now.”

Sam's expression is riddled with concern but Dean ignores it. The muscles in his arm cinch tighter, fingers flex around the handle of his glock. “I swear to fucking God, Sam, I'm not playing. If you don't move…”

“You'll what, Dean?” Sam squares his shoulders. “You gonna shoot me? Kill me?” He watches as Dean's eyes flash with pain, but it's gone in a second. Still he takes the opportunity and uses it. He hates himself but it's their  _ only _ chance. “We've lost mom. We've lost…  _ you've  _ lost Cas…” His brother’s eyes, having been fixed on the nephilim, cut to Sam's suddenly. Pain. His jaw muscles clench. Then his eyes are fixed again, glaring behind Sam.

“I don't have to shoot to kill you, Sam.”

“You gonna take that chance?” Panic finds its way up Sam's chest. He knows his brother well enough to realize he  just might shoot. Dean doesn't budge. “You gonna risk losing me too? We're in the middle of  _ nowhere,  _ Dean. How long do you think it'll take for me to bleed out before you get me to a hospital?” His brothers eyes close. Squeeze shut for a moment before he blinks them open again, and he looks at Sam, almost pleading. So, Sam continues, voice softer, “We can use him, Dean. He can help us get her back.” He shifts his eyes to Cas’ body. “He can help us get  _ him _ back.”

Dean releases his left hand from the gun handle and scrubs it over his face. Right hand still firmly holding on, still pointed at the figure behind Sam. He glances at his little brother before looking back at the nephilim, eyes just barely softer. He points at  _ Jack _ , and cringes at even thinking of it's human name. It's been standing stock still, eyes wide and trained on Dean. It almost looks…. if Dean didn't know better, he'd think it was scared. His pointed hand sweeps to his angel.

“Fix him,” he demands. “Bring him back. Now.”

The thing just stares. Sam backs up slowly, gesturing for it to come down the stairs, one hand still held up at the pointed gun. The nephilim takes a tentative step, then another, until he's on the bottom stair. Dean’s fingers once again flex around the gun.

“Dean,” Sam pleads again. “Please put the gun down, man.”

“You're outta your fucking mind, Sammy,” Dean replies.

Suddenly, the glock is thrown from his hand. Dean tracks it until it falls at least thirty feet from where he's standing. Eyes wide he stares at the  _ thing.  _ He knew it. Monster. His arm is suddenly pinned to his side. He can't move it. “What the hell?  _ Goddamn it,  _ I  _ told _ you, Sam!”

“Jack, stop it!” Sam intercedes. Dean grunts, trying with all his might to move, literally any limb, because it would seem, at this moment, he's paralyzed. He finally sees the nephilim move. It points its finger at the gun.

“I don't like that thing,” it says. The voice is young-sounding, innocent.  _ Yeah right,  _ Dean thinks to himself. “And I don't like him.” He watches as the thing points at him, and he waits to be torched alive, or obliterated into a million pieces like he watched Lucifer do to Cas once, but nothing happens.

“He's not a bad guy, Jack,” Sam pacifies, “he's just afraid.”

“Fuck you, Sam,” Dean growls.

“He looks mean,” it says again.

“He's not usually mean, I promise you. Can you trust me?” Again with Sam's fucking placating. Dean watches the nephilim look at Sam, eyes still wide, mock innocence, Dean's decided, and nod its head.

_ The fuck is going on here? Apparently Sam's made bff’s with a monster. What the hell else is new? _

Dean watches it complete the last stair and begin to close the distance between it and Cas, and he grunts again. He wants to  _ move!  _ He wants to put himself between them.  _ Protect. Protect.  _ His head repeats.

It watches him warily until it reached the angel and stops, focuses for a moment on his body.

“Jack, can you release my brother, please?” Sam asks.

It glances back at Dean. “Is he going to try and harm me again with that shiny object?” Something in Dean's belly stirs. Suddenly, he's reminded of the way Cas was when they first met. But  _ fuck that,  _ he thinks to himself. This thing is  _ not  _ like Cas.  _ It's not like Cas. _

Sam looks at Dean and narrows his eyes. “No, he's not,” he responds matter of factly. Dean glares back. But suddenly he can move. He gasps as his legs suddenly come to life and almost buckle beneath him. He doesn't make a move for the gun, though. It's his turn to placate both Sam and the thing… for now. Instead, he watches, stares with bated breath as it kneels down next to his angel. It touches his chest, then his face and closes its eyes. It only takes a moment before it's eyes fly open. It sucks in a breath and looks back at Sam, shifts its gaze quickly to Dean and then back again before…

“This isn't him,” it says, standing and turning to face them.

_ “What?”  _ Both say in unison.

“This is not my Castiel,” the nephilim clarifies, and rage fills Dean for a moment at the use of the possessive term before he realizes what this actually means.

“What the fuck do you mean that's not  _ your _ Castiel? What--” he cuts himself off, looking at his younger brother for some sort of an answer. But Sam  _ looks _ just as confused as Dean actually is. “Who is that, then?” Dean points. “And where is  _ OUR Castiel?” _

The nephilim looks around for a moment, as if planning to find him in the darkness, and then sighs, sadly (if Dean believed it had emotions). “The Castiel you know, Dean Winchester, is in the other world.”

Dean stares. He's unable to move, but this time it's the weight of this newfound knowledge that keeps him stationary, save for the labored breaths heaving air in and out of his lungs. He stares at Sam, who's gone slack-jawed and wide-eyed, and it's almost cartoonishly comical, if anything at all were funny. Still, he's not sure he believes it. He  _ saw _ Cas. Saw him just before… saw him go after Lucifer with determination, hatred. Wasn't that  _ his _ Cas? How could that not have been his  _ fucking  _ Cas?

“That's bullshit,” he finally mutters, staring down at the angel's body. “I saw him, Sam, you--you saw him,” his voice sounds uncertain, and he hates it. “Sam?” He finally looks up at his brother. Sam's brow is furrowed, mouth set in a hard line, mulling over something in his head. “Hey!”

Sam sucks in a breath, breaking out of whatever thoughts plague him, to look at Dean. There's something behind his eyes Dean can't place. “I… yes, I saw him, of course I saw him, but…” he trails off, turning his attention to the nephilim.

“But? What do you mean _ but?  _ But  _ what _ , Sam?” Dean tries to interject.

“How do you know?” Sam asks it. Dean glares again, because he can't fucking believe Sam is playing into this… whatever it's got up it's sleeve.

“It doesn't know,” Dean scoffs.

“I do know,* the nephilim replies defiantly.

Dean rounds on it, rage seeping out of every pore in his body. “You don't know  _ shit _ about him!” He points at Cas, balls his other hand into a fist and clenches his jaw to the point of pain in an attempt to keep himself contained. It's futile. “Tell me one thing,  _ one thing,  _ you fucking  _ know  _ about him!”

*Dean,” Sam pleads.

“Shut up, Sam!” He doesn't even give his younger brother a sideways glance. Instead, he wishes looks could actually kill as he glares at the thing. *What do you know?” he continues his interrogation. “You wanna know what  _ I  _ know? Huh? What I know is that your  _ daddy _ fucking killed him!”

“Dean!”

If he's being completely honest, he couldn't give two shits about Sam chiding him like an infant at the moment. He's so angry, he's damn near shaking, still pointing at  _ the abomination  _ as Cas would call it, and his adrenaline is so high, he's sweating fucking buckets. Powers or no powers, he's ready to fight this thing to the death if he needs to. He  _ wants  _ to.  _ It doesn't know shit about Castiel. _

“I don't want anything to do with my real father!” It's yelling at Dean now, and seems just as angry. Sam steps closer to his brother, protectively.

“Yeah, right,” Dean scoffs again.

“Dean,” Sam voice is too fucking calm. It pisses Dean off a little more. “Please. Hear him out.” Dean balls his hands into fists, but doesn't reply as Sam turns to address the nephilim. “Tell us how you know that's not the Cas we knew.”

“I can't feel him,” the nephilim replies.

“Of  _ course  _ you can't feel him,” Dean air-quotes angrily, “he's fucking dead, jackass!” Sam sighs, exasperated, and again, Dean doesn't care. The nephilim’s gray-blue eyes narrow in Dean's direction, and if he's not mistaken, Dean thinks he may see it attempt to roll them. Again, he's reminded of Cas and his fucking heart aches. Each time this kid…  _ thing  _ reminds him of Cas, he wants to pummel something, harder and harder until it's a bloody pulp under his fist.  _ It has no right to be like Cas!  _ Cas was -  _ is  _ \-  _ is  _ good, and pure and this thing is half goddamn devil. Not to mention the reason Cas is dead.

“If that was the one you call  _ your _ Castiel, Dean Winchester, I would still be able to sense him, even in death. I cannot. This body,” the nephilim hesitates to look down at Cas. Dean bristles. “is not an angel I have ever known.”

“You didn't know him anyw--” Dean starts to yell, but is quickly cut off by his pain in the ass little brother.

“Dean!”

“Okay,  _ fine!  _ You knew him in the womb, however the fuck that works!” Dean sighs, exasperated and exhausted, swiping his palm over his mouth. He calms himself minutely and lowers his voice likewise. “Alright, I'll play along. How do we get him back?”

“And Mom,” Sam adds.

“Yeah, Sammy, I know,” Dean replies, his tone sarcastic and irritated, “and Mom.” They both give their undivided attention to the nephilim, who Dean now realizes is dressed in an old man tan jacket, white T-shirt and khakis, and again he thinks of Cas. How he would dress if he were being casual, grocery shopping, watching a movie, lounging at the bunker where he  _ belongs.  _ All the things he should be doing because he fucking deserves it, instead of being dead or lost in some apocalyptic world, fighting off God knows who (and frankly, God probably  _ doesn't  _ know) if he's to believe it. He will if and when he sees it.

“We have to go into the other world,” the nephilim answers solemnly.

“Okay,” Dean claps his hands together once, “well, do your  _ expecto petronum _ Harry Potter shit and let's go.”

Sam's takes a breath, as if he's about to say something, something Dean probably doesn't wanna hear, when the nephilim interrupts him suddenly.

“I can't.”

And says something Dean  _ really  _ doesn't wanna hear.

Dean's brow furrows, one part confusion, one part frustration, and a whole fuck load of parts pissed because now he  _ knows  _ Satan, Jr. is playing games.

“What do you mean, you  _ can't?”  _ Sam beats him to the punch.  _ Too bad it's not a literal punch,  _ Dean thinks. The nephilim’s eyes cut away, as if deep in thought for a moment and Dean's… well, patience isn't one of his strong suits.

“You better start talking, Zach Morris, before I get my gun and start shooting.” He knows it's a futile threat; knows his gun and the bullets it houses would do nothing, hell, probably wouldn't even bruise the kid, but his mouth has a mind of its own. And look at that, it seems to work.

“When I was…” the nephilim pauses, brow furrowed in search of words, before continuing, “part of my mother, I had her… essence?” He looks at both hunters for approval of word choice. Dean just stares. Sam nods once to indicate he's following. “And I had Castiel.” Dean bristles again. “I… could… use them both for strength. I-I was stronger then.”

“Well, figure it out,” Dean starts, his voice low and ominous. He's lost Cas. He's lost his mom, and he's not about to lose his brother over some parlor tricks from Satan, Jr. “You got some power in you, kid. That much is obvious. If what you say is true.  _ If _ the real Cas is in the other world, sounds like he needs saving, doesn't it?” He looks at his brother and grits his teeth. “Tell us what you need us to do to help and we'll do it. I want my fucking family back together, and in  _ one piece.  _ Understand?”

Jack looks at Dean almost incredulously, but straightens his back, his expression turning resigned, yet determined. “Yes,” he replies, “I understand, Dean Winchester.”

***

The end… for now. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry for making you revisit that pain! Come here and let me hug you!   
> Thank you so much for reading.


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